The Child Born
by Vader's Fallen Angel
Summary: When we were born might mean more than when we have our birthday.
1. Prologue

_Monday's child is fair of face._

_Tuesday's child is full of grace._

_Wednesday's child is full of woe._

_Thursday's child has far to go._

_Friday's child is loving and giving._

_Saturday's child works hard for a living._

_But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day,_

_Is bonny and blithe and good and gay._

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_._

_._

_.  
><em>

_Mondays child is fair of face,_

"He's a beautiful child," a neighbor commented. His mother smiled and accepted the complement with her characteristic grace.

It was no flattery. He was a charming child, a beautiful little boy.

Giving and possessive; empathic and cruel, open and deceptive. He was enslaved since birth, by birth, but somehow fiercely free. He had the light gold suns as his hair and the dark blue night sky as his eyes. Monday's child had his faults, but was so compassionate, so charming it was hard not to smile and brush them away. After all, no one was perfect.

After his work was done and before he was called in to sleep, he and his friends amused themselves with toyless games in the street. Shadows flickered on his face and in his eyes as he laughed and played in twilight.

.

_Tuesdays child is full of grace,_

She was a good girl.

That's why it was sometimes hard to understand why her family was gone. Naomi, an older slave, assured her that it was no one's fault but the pirates that they were killed and she taken. There was nothing she could have done. But at night, when she began to forget them, it was hard not to feel guilty.

Still, Tuesday's child adapted and learned to live as well she might. She was graceful, hardworking, and humble, but unbroken, even as she was passed from one master to another. So when the ship landed on her newest home there was still light in her eyes as she looked out over the sand.

It was not an easy life. But even with lowered eyes and worn hands, she managed to smile.

.

_Wednesdays child is full of woe,_

His parents didn't love him. They went through all the right motions with him and each other, but he could feel the difference between them and some of his friends' parents. He was a prop, not a beloved child.

He learned to act; to become part of the façade of his parent's perfect marriage. He feigned ignorance though he knew, somehow, his mother loved a man who had died so settled and his father didn't want to be married at all, but needed the business connections. He continued the pretense that they were a family instead of three people living alone under one roof. He pretended when he knew the truth, smiled when he wanted to scream, heard "I love you" and _lie, lie, lie,_ in the same breath…

Despite himself, he grew to hate them.

After deception for so long truth was like a splash of cold water on a hot day. He stood outside his family's burning house next to the stranger who got him out. The man said he burnt it down and killed the boy's parents. The Sith wanted him. The dark man did not lie and say love.

So Wednesday's child left the light of the fire to go with him.

.

_Thursdays child has far to go,_

He ran. He didn't need to look to know security was on his heals. But they didn't know the back alleys as well as he did.

They went right as he ducked left. Clearly these guy has chased him too many times if they knew one of his usual hiding spots was that way. He shrugged and decided he just wouldn't go back there. He didn't miss it, didn't think twice about leaving it behind like a rock-snake leaves behind an old skin.

Thursday's child had no home, not since he left the orphanage. He liked the streets better. Sure he couldn't get regular meals or shelter. But the freedom, the freedom made it more than worth it.

Let the other kids dream of being something great, so long as there were no walls, he could laugh.

.

_Fridays child is loving and giving,_

His parents loved him. He may have been an orphan, but he knew this through (almost) forgotten dieing words and impressions from something he didn't understand. He knew he was not abandoned; he was lost.

He never called his aunt and uncle mother and father even though they raised him. Perhaps it was because as he slept, he heard whispers telling him of forbidden, galaxy-changing love. (And he knew that the dreams came not because he wanted more family, but because he searched for truth.) Or maybe because he subconsciously hoped that by leaving the parental spot open he could somehow persuade his to return.

That was nonsense of course and there was work to be done.

Planets away his twin learned her parents died to give her life and became determined to give all she had as they did. She learned of her mother's views, politics, involvement in the rebellion and was fiercely determined to follow, to help however she could.

Meanwhile Friday's first child learned nothing, but loved them anyway as he could do nothing else.

.

_Saturdays child works hard for his living,_

He was a good boy.

He couldn't understand, then, why Mom had to die. Dad said it wasn't his fault and he believed him, most of the time, but sometimes at night or with the other kids it was harder. Still life went on as life does and he was close to his father. They tended to the machines on the farm together and could rest at night with the satisfaction that comes with hard work.

When Dad remarried life changed but for the better and not too much. Shmi seemed to fit right in, like she had always been there. There was a bit of an adjustment, and then all three fell into a new rhythm. There was still work to do and life to live. Saturday's child rose rested and went to bed satisfied. What more could he want?

It was not an easy life, but a good one. And he found himself content.

.

_And the child that is born on the Sabbath day  
>Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.<em>

"She's a beautiful child, a neighbor said. Her mother laughed and deflected the complement with the customary elegance.

But she was more than that and her parents were proud of her.

Giving and kind; compassionate and well-behaved; intelligent and cheerful. She was her parent's perfect child. Loved and admired by all, so charming that she didn't attract the jealousy one might expect. Sunday's child seemed so good. Let the universe be mean and ugly at times, she was always untouchable.

After winning the final debate, despite competing in the age-group above her own, she walked to the front to the stage to accept the applause. A demure smile rested on her lips as she acknowledged the crowd and wished she could scream.


	2. Beautiful

_Mondays child is fair of face,_

.

_"'Truth', said jesting Pilate, 'what is Truth?'" and would not stay for an answer. ~ Francis Bacon_

.

…nothing left. The Jedi's eyes flashed with pain, and then the awareness within them vanished with her presence in the Force. He twisted, allowing the copse to fall next to her companion.

_Death, fear it do not, murmured Yoda. _ Vader knew the truth. Death was nothing to rejoice in, nothing to welcome. Death took and took and took, leaving you with nothing but shallow graves and empty arms. There were two Jedi on the scuffed, metal floor now. This was a triumph already. Yet he was still in a towering fury as he turned his attention to the remaining three. He heard rumors his old, treasonous master would be here, but couldn't sense the man anywhere. Another false lead it seemed, but just in case…

"Escaped I see, leaving you behind. Tell me, was Kenobi unable to face me himself?" he attempted to use people's emotions against them as his master tried to teach him. But after only a few moments of sullen, scornful silence he lost his notoriously loose grip on his temper and hissed out his next words, "where is he? Where are you hiding him? Where is Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Calmly, infuriatingly so, the Mon Calamari, the oldest Jedi, only watched him and did not even touch her saber in response to his lighted one. A younger Jedi, a Kajain'sa'Nikto, sneered, "even if we knew we wouldn't never tell you."

"Even now, in hiding, he inspires sacrifice he does not deserve. Bravely spoken words – wasted on a coward who is not worthy them or any other form of loyalty. I wonder, will you now offer to lay down your lives as well?" he attempted to sound mocking but the **m**ask could not pick up the inflection.

Parents tell children stories: lessons and legends. Some are true, some contain truth, some lead to truth, and some hold no truth at all. _Once upon a time there were two brothers. There was the responsible, serious, older brother, quick to advise and tease in equal measure, and the reckless, brave, younger brother, careless and immortal in the way of the young and the legends. They were best friends and loved each other dearly. Then one betrayed the other. Do you know who the traitor was?_

"To die as bravely as my brethren and join them in the Force is the greatest of honors," this was the youngest now, speaking words he must have repeated to himself endlessly, practicing until they came out scripted.

"Is that so? And how do you know they died bravely? I assure you many died begging," a parody of a smile began to stretch across his hidden face, but he stopped midway in pain. His hatred flared and he saw the two males flinch. He took a step forward, using his presence in the Force for its full intimidation value. His hatred grew as there was sharp pain in his legs that he still hadn't gotten used to, all these years removed from Musafar. And worse still he felt how weak he was in the Force. Once he was the Son of Suns and his power filled the skies, but now–

"Of course they didn't!" cried the youngest. Vader focused his attention on the boy. The human trembled under the weight of his regard. He swallowed, throat dry, trying to continue but faltering. Then he drew courage from some memory, "Skywalker. I remember him from when I was a youngling. I knew him, we all knew him. Skywalker died heroically and that's the truth."

"Naïve child," the mask would not let him chuckle any more either, "tell me, where have you been tucked away that the cruelty of the universe has not revealed itself to you? You who speak of legends and know nothing of _truth_."

"Darkness deceives" the woman spoke for the first time. All three males turned their attention to her. "Remember Palpatine. People are tempted because evil appears beautiful. A monster may seek to terrify, but a demon comes wearing a f**a**ir face."

_Easygoing Anakin: laughing, charming, and seeping power. A perfect mask in the ballroom of Deryvian snakes. Fervent Anakin: cocky, clever, and brazenly honest. Why should his new master watch him warily, as if he was a bizarre new creature he could not quite understand? Submissive Anakin: eyes downcast, vulnerable, and too valuable to kill or even permanently damage. Let the masters see what they wanted, just get through the day, live to see the next sunrise. Lord Vader: seeping power, too valuable to kill, brazenly honest. Because he was and had no reason to pretend otherwise._

Charismatic, deceptive, light, Anakin. Scarred, honest, dark, Vader. _Once upon a time there was a handsome knight, a noble queen whom he served, and a bloody monster that was feared throughout the land. Do you know which one killed her? What? No guesses?_

_Eenie. Meenie. Minie. Moe. Catch a Wookie by the toe. No? Why not? It's as likely to give you the true answer as a Stih would. _

"Pray Jedi, when have I deceived him?" Vader questioned. "Why should I bother? He has deceived himself with pretty stories without my help."

The woman was too deep in the light to be touched by words. The Kajain'sa'Nikto was spared a bit of awareness, too angry to hear him, just angry enough to crack and attack. But he insured the youngest felt the return of his attention. The conversation was between them now; the Dark Lord and the young one who was so different than Anakin but so obviously idolized him.

"I wonder, do they comfort you, those **s**tories? Give you purpose? Do they give you friends when you're alone? Idols when the universe is ugly? Are they soft and tame, gold-tinted memories of better times? Or are they bright and fierce, to combat the darkness where nightmares stalk?" he breathed, "I will tell you the truth, child, if only to destroy you."

Of course Anakin was not _known _for his eloquence, anyone could testify to _that_. But he was once the apprentice of The Negotiator, was currently the apprentice of Sidious, and was always Her husband. He was known to be a fast learner, was it so surprising he learned?

Not unexpectedly, the Kajain'sa'Nikto snapped and attacked. The fight was quick and brutal, the Dark Lord drinking deeply of the man's rage. The Kajain'sa'Nikto was taught to release it, not use it and was unprepared. Vader beheaded the Jedi with one quick twist. He used the Force to toss the body next to the other empty shells and send the head to land at the boy's feet. "_Overdramatic much?"_ _murmured Obi-Wan's memory._

Darth Vader switched off his saber, hooking it to his suit in a fluid motion. He pointed at the head.

"Education. The likes of which you would not learn in the Temple among those who preferred empty platitudes. That is hollow death, not "becoming one with the Force". There is nothing left. He's gone, just like so many others. I know death well enough to know it is final," he cut at the boy who so adored Anakin. "His death is reality. His death is truth. Stories contain the monsters. Stories calm the doubters. Stories create and recreate the heroes. Stories end happily ever after. Truth can only ever just be."

Clearly the boy was ready to break. Vader moved forward only to find himself blocked as the woman stood between them.

"Enough," she said. Vader turned his attention to her, but she did not flinch under the mask's empty black eyes. Moments crept by, the only sound were breaths; Vader's rhythmic _woosh_ and the boys labored pants.

"Padwan," she broke the pause without inflection, "go," and the boy fled. Vader didn't bother pursuing him. Admiral Okins was insuring no one would get away. He turned to the woman, arms crossed, amused.

"The boy will not escape."

"I know," she met his mask eyes calmly, "but better dead than broken. Better dead than fallen."

"Old Jedi fairy tales. I can see through your lies."

"No lies have I knowingly spoken to you, Servant of Darkness" she replied, voice proud. Perhaps sensing his sneer as he prepared to speak, she changed tactics; saying softly, almost motherly, "tell me then, was it truth that caused your fall Son of Suns?"

Darth Vader's breath would have caught, if he still breathed as other men. Instead the _woosh_ continued. They watched each other, neither reacting to the sound of shots outside nor the cry in the Force as the boy died. Vader noted for no particular reason he had not even bothered to find out his name. Speaking of names he searched his memory for the woman before him and finally came up with…

"Eerin Bant"

"Correct" she answered simply. One of Kenobi's old friends so there was a chance she **k**new…

"Eerin where is Obi-Wan?" he smirked, taking pleasure in dropping "knight" from her name, a jab of sorts against his old master. She merely watched him silently in response. Of course he never really believed that she would just tell him, even if she knew.

"Perhaps there is something you want? Something I can offer you to betray him?" he asked, not really thinking it would work but knowing that threats had even less of a chance.

"There is nothing you can offer me that I desire." He raised a hidden, hairless eyebrow at her words. Her refusal was expected, but he had also expected her to repeat her suspicions.

"Indeed. I admit I'm surprised, Jedi. Not that you refused, no. Rather that you trust a Sith would speak the truth."

"Oh the Darkness deceives, certainly, but I knew you when you were still called Anakin. You were always honest. You are not the deceiver, you are the deceived."

Now he moved, striking as suddenly and decisively as ever. She crumpled at his feet, never moving to touch her saber. Vader stood over the body. If not for his suit his chest would be heaving with emotion. There was a beeping from his communicator.

"Divisional General," he answered.

"Ensign Cede reported in my lord. They have killed the escaping Jedi traitor."

"Clear way his body and the bodies of the four in here. Inform the Emperor the Jedi have been defeated."

"Excellent my lord. It will be done," he responded and the conversation ended. Vader turned to go. Jedi traitor – lie. The man didn't believe the Jedi were traitors whatever his duties. Lord Vader could **s**ense when people lied. He _knew_, whatever the Jedi tried to trick him into believing. Like a game he played as a child. Sitting in a circle, one walking around touching heads and chanting:

Podracer / Podracer / Landspeeder!

_Truth / Truth / Lie._

"_I love you," Padme cried. _/_"He will not let me down. He never has," stated Obi-Wan. _/"_Once more the Sith will rule the Galaxy. And we shall have… peace," Palpatine drawled. _

Okrzyknięty kłamcą. Lazljivac. Bugiardo. Liar. Leugenaar. Valehtelija. Menteur. Lügner. Gillau

No. He knew which of them was telling the truth. He had to. Otherwise he was living a lie. Anakin could do so with a wink and a smile. But Vader could do none of the above. _Once upon a time there was a valiant hero who lied and a despicable villain who told the truth. "Mirror, Mirror on the wall…_


	3. Acceptance

_Tuesdays child is full of grace,_

_._

_ Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. ~ The Serenity Prayer_

.

"'…who's the fairest of them all?' and the mirror answered, 'Queen you are fair, tis true. But the princess is far fairer than you,'" Shmi continued, speaking to the younglings too little to work as her fingers flew over the chip she was programming. She was not her brilliant son, but was skilled and valued nonetheless.

Unique, clever, strong Anakin. Her child. She felt a familiar pang of loss. She wondered if he was happy. Was he eating well? Sleeping well? Did he have new friends? Did he fit in easily? Was he learning a lot? Did he remember her stories? Where was he now?

"Nanna Shmi?" Shmi felt Lessa tug at her dress. She realized abruptly she had stopped speaking. The children watched her, worriedly.

Bringing herself out of her musings, she smiled and tried to projected calm. It was habit now as it had been since she realized her son could feel when she was distressed. "Sorry sweetheart, where was I?"

Rustling and throwing glances among themselves, they seemed to silently debate for a moment who would tell her. Ko'phela, a pantoran, was somehow elected and **h**umbly directed her to the stopping point. As she continued Shmi remembered when she was a youngling. All of them sitting about, clamoring for the storyteller's attention. These children, born to suffering, raised in hardship, and trained in submission would never act in such a way. That's the way children born in slavery were.

Of course her son was always the exception. Anakin was well named; her little warrior. He would never accept defeat in such a way. Even in bondage he was independent. Even beat down he was like her. Unbroken. And now he was helping the galaxy as she always hoped he would – fighting for others, to bring them freedom.

Kindly, deliberately, she smiled at Molia – frightened alone Molia. Her mother had been recently sold to an owner who didn't want "some brat" too. Janara was looking after her now and the girl was young enough that she would forget her mother soon enough.

Every slave was always aware of the possibility that their family would be torn apart, Shmi experienced it first hand. She was blessed in regards to her son, amply blessed, of that she had no doubt. She raised him for a time. He would be able to remember her. They were separated, yes, but there was potential for separation from the day he was born. She had not lost him to death, nor to a new, possibly cruel, owner. She gave him to freedom. She chose. She did. Not Watto, not Gardulla, not any one else. She told him to go and not look back. It was the right thing to do. What sort of mother would she be if she did otherwise?

Naturally it was hard at the beginning. She cried herself to sleep those first nights. Wishing her child was still home. Wanting him to be there when she woke up in the morning.

Ultimately, though, change happened. She had to accept how the universe was now, not how it used to be. She knew this since she was a child. Slowly she stopped crying. Eventually she found comfort in her prayers.

Ninsun. Pachamama. Toci. Nerthus. Orps. Joro. Cybele. Mut.

By now the second sun was setting and the children headed home, chatting like felucian birds, but not dancing and skipping, not play-acting out the st**o**ry as she use to. They had already learned to conserve their energy when they could.

Replacing the chips where they belonged Shmi decided she was done for the night. She rubbed her hands together, fingers tired and worn. Heading to the kitchen she began to prepare dinner. For one.

One person eating, one person sleeping, one person living alone. Mournfully pulling out a plate she stopped, then smiled. Sitting there was the small, hand carved flute she received not nine days ago. Cliegg.

Kind, warm, Cliegg. He had been courting her recently. He visited Watto a while back looking for a rare piece and she had helped him as best she could. He smiled at her. He came back later to have a data chip programmed and they talked. His wife died seven years ago. He had a son only a little older than hers. He owned a moisture farm outside Anchorhead. She told him how she came to be a slave. She talked about her own child. She told him what she remembered about her family. She couldn't remember the last time she spoke of them. Slaves didn't. It didn't matter if you were born a slave or began as a princess. Blood didn't matter. What mattered was your skills. They were the only reason you might live tomorrow. Perhaps that's why it never occurred to Anakin to ask. And never occurred to her to tell him or talk about them with anyone really.

Except Cliegg did ask. And she told him.

Now he came once a moon, sometimes with business (which they knew he could have taken care of closer to home) so Watto wouldn't complain about wasted time. Other times he brought her things. Simple little gifts.

Unembarrassed, as she saw girls often were, she accepted the gifts from him with a smile and watched him smile in return. Shmi picked up the flute, running her fingers over it. They knew the other's intentions and feelings. There was no need for coyness or bombastic declarations. Passionate vows and sugar-spun fantasies had no place between two adults who knew who they were and what their intentions were. They took joy in each other. They were co**m**fortable together. They were in love and were getting to know each other in their own time. The future was coming, there was no need to rush.

Now that was enough daydreaming, she brought herself back sharply. Shmi shook herself out of her musings before she stood there all night. She put it down and finished dinner. Then she sat down to eat. Alone.

But next moon Cliegg said he would bring Owen. She would be happy to have a boy sitting at the table again. Not to replace her son, it was impossible to really replace someone, but she missed nurturing, mothering. She had enough room in her heart for him too. She looked around the table, empty, wanting. In the silence she lost herself to memories.

Remembering the day her son left, she closed her eyes. That day Shmi stood, watching him go, the wind tugging ever so slightly at her bun. This was not a sand storm wind, just a breeze. She did not cry. Her heart was breaking, but she would not allow herself to hurt Anakin any more, to make him more uncertain or conflicted. She had to be sure. Later she would break down. Then her child needed her. And she could be strong for her son. Her heart was breaking, but she was not broken, never broken.

Outside the suns had disappeared and the stars were out. Anakin would always go to watch the stars, dreaming of somedays. Shmi cleaned up and prepared for bed. Just as she had for years and might do for years more, gods willing. Habits. Routines. But everything was not the same. She was not born on Tatooine, but had lived here long enough to feel the shift without needing a calendar.

Knowing in her heart when the seasons were changing.

Everything changed. Predictable or surprising; slow or sudden; things changed. She accepted that. You could no more stop change than the suns from setting. Things chang**e**d for better or worse. She did not fight – she never saw the point. But that did not mean she had been defeated. She remembered who she was. A man was more than his body, a woman was more than her family. The heart, mind, soul, morals, conscious – character. That was what made a person who they were. She never surrendered who she was. Nothing was worth that. People could sell you, but they only won when you sold yourself. You did not need to be a warrior to be strong. Sometimes strength was not fighting fiercely or dieing nobly, but living well.

Now, as had been her custom since she learned of the life within her womb, she prayed to the mother goddesses for her child. _Please may I have succeeded in teaching my little warrior that. Bless my son in all he does. Make it so he does not forget. Let him remember my lessons. Let him remember the stories I told…_


	4. Danger

Wednesdays child is full of woe,

.

_Law 2: Never put too much trust in friends, rather learn to use enemies. ~ The Forty Eight Laws of Power_

.

…to teach him. His master had many ways to drive home a point, most of them painful. Sometimes he told stories to teach a lesson. The one Sidious remembered clearest and considered the most relevant was not about the Sith of old, nor about the Jedi. It was about two force-blind men, one powerful and cunning, the other foolish and ambitious.

~~~In ancient times, on some unnamed planet, there was a powerful, cruel king. Dionysius had all a wealthy, mighty ruler could have: luxury beyond imagining, power unequaled. Naturally he was surrounded by flatterers and grasping power-seekers of all types. One particularly outrageous man was named Damocles. One day Damocles exaggerated to the point of lunacy, proclaiming at the end that no man could be more blessed than he who spent even one day on Dionysius' throne. Dionysius, with all appearance of indulgence, offered Damocles his fondest dream. For one day he could sit on the throne.

~~~Sycophant Damocles accepted the offer eagerly and showed up the next morning at the palace. He was immediately escorted inside, dressed in opulent robes, and brought to the throne. Rich food was laid before him and servants stood about to attend to his every whim. Damocles was overwhelmed and barely knew what to do. He indulged himself in every way as Dionysius stood nearby, watching and encouraging him. He grew more and more **a**rrogant as the day continued and nothing was denied to him. Then he glanced up and paled.

~~~Over his head hung a blade on a single thread.

~~~Letting loose a cry he tried to rise, terrified, but Dionysius stopped him; the agreement was to sit on the throne for the whole day. As long as Damocles sat on the throne he could do as he wished, but the minute he left his power he was at the mercy of those he once lorded over. Soldiers entered the room and Damocles begged to know the reason for the blade. Dionysius replied that he wished for power and was granted it, and all that came with it. The frightened courtier pleaded and cried until Dionysius took pity and dismissed him. Damocles returned to his home wiser than when he left.

After he finished Palgous did not bother to explain what it meant. He never explained his stories, using them instead as another test, another way to see if Palpatine was worthy of being a Sith. Sidious felt (and therefore knew) the Sith Master had at least one apprentice before him who, well, had not lived up to his potential. He would not meet the same fate.

The meaning here was clear enough. Those in power are always in danger. So use it against them and be careful.

In the current universe the Jedi had power while the Sith could only hide. But power was a double-edged (ha!) b**l**ade. With this power they chose to take on responsibilities. Their responsibilities grew with their power. So give them more responsibilities than they could handle. Either they would not have enough power or else gain it and appear as tyrants. They depended too much on power from the people rather than from the Force. (And used the weaker side though that was neither here nor there.) The people as a whole had power that by its very nature they could not keep, but only choose whom to entrust it too. People can be led. Those that give can often take back. _Remember the mistakes of your predecessors padwan, make sure you can keep what you are given. And they will give, have no fear. So long as you promise and they trust they will give and give and give until they have nothing left. And they will thank you for it._

Obviously he would be in as much if not more danger as Sith Master someday. He would not only constantly contend with his enemies and ambitious allies, no. He would also train an apprentice, give him or her shears, and then spend the rest of his masterhood blocking his/her attempts to cut the thread while teaching a better way. How… interesting.

Now though, he looked at his master and smiled. He could almost see the blade poised above him.

In his chambers, years later, the Sith Master slept peacefully and without thought of power, ambition, or betrayal as his apprentice crept in.

_Snip_.

.

Often times when Anakin visited Palpatine told him stories, slowly luring him. The Blade of Damocles though, that one was special. He did not want to pour it into his ears like so much water. The others were water, a hundred little streams making a river that would slowly reshape a rock. This was different. This was wine. He carefully laid the foundations, planned the date based on the boy's lessons, insured the senate reflected what he wanted it to, poured a cup of his favorite tea. Then he told the story carefully, each practiced nuance perfect.

Lapsing into bad habits, the young Jedi picked at the couch as he thought. The older Sith waited, watched every flicker in the boy's eye, all his nerves strained, fully invested in the child before him. Then Anakin's face turned determined.

"As a citizen of the Republic and as a Jedi I promise you don't have to worry about me. I'll never betray you Chancellor, don't worry."

There was never a time in his life that Sideous came so close to screaming incoherently.

Instead though, he managed to keep his calm, smiled, thanked Anakin, and seriously considered changing plans and looking for a different apprentice. But the boy was so _strong_. He comforted himself. Skywalker was a Jedi still, later, as a Sith, surely he would understand. So really, the Emperor reflected, sourly considering Vader, he had been forewarned and had no one but himself to blame.

Oh the younger Sith hated him and would kill him if given the opportunity, but he didn't know how to do so. He trained Starkiller, but did not insure he had strong allies nor use his enemies against each other. He acted like an akk dog that growled and snapped rather than a nexu that carefully stalked its prey. Sidious had power, an incredible amount of power. Vader never used that power, the inherent danger of having power, against him.

No Vader just didn't understand. He thought that if he had power, he would be safe and the more he had the safer he would be. He still thought like a slave, watching his peers hurt while the masters went unharmed. He looked at Sidious, saw the older man had more power, and then was obedient while trying to gain more for himself. Vader thought when he was more powerful than the other man he would triumph, not remembering the Jedi started stronger and more numer**o**us than the Sith, or at least failing to absorb the lesson.

It's not like Sidious didn't try to do his duty as Sith Master. How many times had he played Vader and Xizor off each other? Or even Vader against other "flavors of the month"? Yet his apprentice always dismissed the "political games," exasperated. He tried to surround the younger Sith with ambitious, grasping, officers with the competent ones. Instead of cleverly putting them in their place he bulldozed over them. Never mind that they were from powerful families that had long memories and with whom he would have to work as Emperor else have every third planet rebelling. As the fist of the Empire Vader was excellent, but if that was all Palpatine wanted he would have kept Grievous around. Thirty years…

Sidious was beyond frustrated. Nothing he did worked.

Obedience was all well and good, but what he craved was ambition. He wanted Vader to be like Anakin, yanking at the leash, always ready to snap it. He needed a trigger. Vader may not be politically savvy, but could more than make up for it in sheer raw cunning and a streak of ruthlessness that made even Sidious shiver in ecstasy. If he was motivated. When he was on fire he burned hotter than a star. Now Vader was like a bed of hot coals, full of potential but not blazing.

Lord Sidious needed something to make Vader burn again.

Anakin was not turned though soft promises, but passionate decisions. The stories helped, but it was his wife's death that brought him to his knees. There were times when the Emperor almost wished Amidala were still alive. She was, unfortunately, a woman of principle, but was artful enough on the political stage. Lady Vader was not an ambitious woman, not one who craved power. But she knew how to wield it. Whatever her opinions on the Empire she would not have sat back and done nothing if she believed she could help. He could have insured that there was no way to return to democracy, that the Sith Empire would continue. Then convince her through news reports and proxies that she would make a better Empress than he Emperor. Her husband would not deny her and she u**n**derstood power. Amidala would have been tricky, dangerous to deal with. But he was not a Sith Master for nothing.

The blasted girl died though and didn't even have the courtesy to leave behind a child he could use. He needed something drastic, someone special…

Isard's spies hurriedly sought the pilot who out flew his apprentice until finally, four months after the destruction of the Death Star, one brought back a name. When the Emperor heard of Luke Skywalker for the first time, he did not fly into a rage. Rather he felt excited because now, finally, things were becoming inter**e**sting again. Vader had not heard yet, but when he did he would begin to move. Would his apprentice hate him for what he was told of his wife's death? How would he try to claim his child? Would Vader be like Anakin, bold and open, or had he learned subtly? How tight were his feelings for his son? How willing would the young rebel be to follow his infamous father?

Options, opportunities, spun through his mind so quickly he could barely keep tack of them. Should he move toward the child first, capture him, learn what he knew, then either use him as a tool to strike down Vader or a means of manipulating the other Sith? Or should he let Vader act then slip the boy away as he took Anakin from the Jedi? Things were changing, he felt alive again as he had not since the end of the Republic. Dueling with the Jedi, the smallest misstep could spell disaster. With his apprentice's refusal to replace their threat level, things had become boring, but now… It was subtle perhaps, but the universe was not the same. It was his political experience that allowed him to project future courses, that told him that things were shifting beneath the surface. As always though, it was the Force that told him everything he needed to know.

Nebezpečí, veszély, baol, danger, gevaar, opasnost, danje, gefahr, bahaya. There were many words in many languages that could be applied, but were rendered unnecessary. For when the name "Luke Skywalker" brushed his ears all he heard was _snip_.


	5. Limitless

_Thursdays child has far to go,_

_._

_And miles to go before I sleep.  
>And miles to go before I sleep.<em>

.

Crunch. Glance. Shuffle. Smirk. Tap. Each small movement was amplified, recorded, analyzed.

_Ugly mug outta my face_ **– **weapons, that's where the money is – told me it was grade A spice – _two hundred credit bounty on his head_ – just the other day – spend some time with us sweet thing. The words washed over them, just brushing their ears. The sabacc players at the table were all experienced enough to concentrate on the game with laser-like focus while being aware enough of the rest of the cantina to draw if necessary.

Near the stage the jumbled group of beings **f**inished their game and showed their hands. There were curses and angry glances as the winner smirking swept up the credits.

"Barkeep! Another round!" the Rodian laughed, "another game or you boys broke?"

"Oi" cried, Ana Blue. The woman leaned forward on the table in a way that emphasized her assets, "do I look like a boy to you?"

Uafhængig, independent, nezavisan, itsenäinen, müstəqil, onafhankelijk, független. No one would support her and she didn't expect or want them to. They were all cut from the same cloth.

"No but I can't call you a lady now can I?" Chordak responded. The table roared in laughter and she leaned back with a smirk.

"Deal," said a cocky smuggler, pushing in his ante.

Unaffected by the money he just won, the dealer gave a sidelong glace to the man on his left. "You sure Solo? The cards have been against you tonight."

"Now isn't that sweet. Chordak I never knew you cared," Han paused for the snickers, smirks, and laughs. "Besides, you should know me better than that."

"Brat," he chuckled, voice fond, "Never were one to care about the odds were you?"

Offended, Han bristled slightly but held his tongue. As laid back as he appeared (and often was) and as often as he seemed to open his mouth before firing up his brain, he hadn't survived so long by being an idiot. Nor because he was blind.

Ulterior motives, changing identities, flimsy alliances. All were commonplace - hell all were expected. No, you couldn't be unobservant and hope to su**r**vive in this type of life. He pushed a foot against the table to balance on two legs with all appearance of causality even as his sharp eyes made note of the other beings. Some eyes were so glazed over the owners wouldn't notice if the kiffing Imperial Navy marched through. Others had wandering eyes that never really focused, just drunk enough to be loud, noisy, trouble. A couple were scattered around in various dark booths speaking in undertones, drinks almost untouched. A few patrons were wearing masks, but the body language distinguished the bounty hunters from the assassins. There were a few girls moving around, looking for business. Their eyes apparently alight but flat behind the glitter. Some did all they could to look nice and harmless, but there was danger tucked behind the façade.

Nice people wouldn't be here Han knew, particularly not alone. He kept an eye on them.

Danger was everywhere. The killers who lurked here were merely the current forms. Still most here weren't bloodsnifffers in banatha clothing or drunk has-beens. They were like him. A bit of a buzz, but aware enough, cautious enough. And for the most part – alone.

Unaccurate in regards to him, but only by technicality. He did have Cheewie, but the wook was as easy going as they came. Cheewie would follow him wherever he chose to head on any given day or remain if he didn't go anywhere. Any planet. Stay for a day, stay for a year. His choice. Provided, that was, they weren't being pursued by the authorities. Again.

No one gave him rules, tied him down. He had his ship. He had his freedom. He was completely free, for better or worse. Isn't that what he always wanted?

Babble washed over him as he flicked through his hand. He debated bluffing his way though, but stopped himself before he went beyond "acceptable risk" to "broke idiot". He had to stop himself; no one else would care if he threw away everything on a whim. (Well, Chewie might go through with his threat to tie him down. Or worse, find a way to restrict his access to alcohol.) But for the most part he did as he pleased. There was no family depending on him, no one waiting him to come home at the end of the day, no one he needed and no one who needed him. He was utterly free. Just like he always wanted. Just like he promised himself he would on the streets of Cordlia years ago running from the planet security force.

Oaths and curses erupted from one corner. There was a shot, and eyes were alight for a moment, the patrons coiling, ready to move. But the disruptive patrons were thrown out and no one paid them a second thought. The only ones who looked at the corpse left behind were the droids who had to dispose of it. Just another day. There was movement on stage as a new band shuffled on. A Chev female with green hair and her male counter part moved to the front. They were given a few glances, but no one came here for the music. The song started slow, unusual. Then the singing started – so full of longing Han spared the off-world slaves a look. Wondering.

Unable to concentrate on the game fully Han felt the words catch him up. The Chev male entered for his part of the duet, "running away – let's do it, free from the ti**e**s that bind. No more despair or burdens to bear out there in the yonder. Running away – go to it. Where did you have in mind? Have to take care, unless there's a "where" you'll only be wandering blind. Just more questions. Different kinds."

Nothing to run from, nothing to run to. Han He looked at his cards carefully, then abruptly decided he didn't care. What the hell. He threw in his cards and left. Eyes followed him out and the people he was playing with paused for a moment to watch him. You had to be aware of everything, but they didn't care more than that. They had their own lives after all. He drifted in, he drifted out, and the universe continued on its way.

Drifting, how pathetic and inaccurate. As it he were a leaf caught up in a breeze. He decided, he chose. There were places he hadn't been, people he hadn't seen, things he hadn't done. The universe was out there. Now he just needed to care. Han was getting restless again. He needed another job. That sense of purpose, the determination, the adrenaline, the rush of cheating the odds. There was a reason he was the best at what he did. It was time to move on.

Unenthusiastically, he flopped into the pilot's chair on the Falcon and tiredly flicked though the various rumors and offers on the market.

**"**No, no, no, boring, boring, chump change, kid stuff, get me killed, slaver" he practically spit the last word, "no, no, possibly, definitely not, maybe, no, boring, interesting."

By the looks of it Jabba needed a spice smuggler. Tatooine to Nar Shaddaa, paid well, and he'd have to slip by the Imps. He did like thumbing his nose at his former employ**e**rs. Bishwags.

Obedient, intelligent, brave, they were the best of the galaxy according to recruitment posters and the like. Blech. The only one Han believed was obedience. Still, the Empire was formidable, and he did so love a challenge**. **The sluggishness he so hated fell away. Inside he felt himself wake up. His heart came alive, brain sharpening in anticipation.

Unabated by his previous apathy the adrenaline rushed through him as he called out, "Chewie, I found us a new job!"

"Nice to see you too Cub. I had a fine sleep, thank you for asking," came the grumbling reply. Oops. It appeared he woke his co-pilot up. Ah well, the rush made it a little hard to care. Besides, there was time enough to rest in the grave.

Disgruntled, the wookie entered, and must have seen the light in Han's eyes as his face softened slightly. He woofed indulgently and began to start up the Falcon. Han gave a smile as they pulled away. On the way to Tatooine he would sketch a basic idea of what to say to Jabba, how to get the job. But there was such a rush as he took off. No matter how many times they flew, the lifting of his ship caused his heart to fill with an almost reverent joy. And as was his silent tradition, as they left the atmosphere he whispered, "I have slip free the surly bonds…"


	6. Seek

Fridays child is loving, 

.

_I believe in the sun even if it isn't shining. I believe in God even when He is silent. I believe in love even when I am alone. ~ Anonymous _

.

"…put out my hand, and touched the face of God" Han finished. Luke looked at him, surprised at the reverent tone, but glanced away least the proud smuggler became defensive and ruined to moment.

Deciding instead to drink deeply to the moment he did…and nearly choked on the… whatever it was that Han gave him to celebrate their successful rescue/escape from Jabba. The smuggler laughed and teased him and the moment p**a**st. That, well night wasn't a word used in space, but when Luke went to bed he thought about Han and the longing in his voice. The awe for something both familiar and untouchable. And he remembered Tatooine.

Really Luke was more like his mother than his father. But like his father he dreamed. He dreamt of truth and true things though he could not always understand what his dreams meant. There were those who were dubious about dream interpretation but no one disbelieved it. Not completely. Not on Tatooine.

Elders were respected on Tatooine. More than the Hutts or the Empire they were listened to and obeyed. Scattered farmers had no time to meet or elect leaders among themselves. Usually people got their news when they went into town to get supplies. But once every five years they all met. They shared who had a child, who got married, who died. Condolences were given, couples blessed by the Elders, and children presented to them. When Luke was three he was formally presented to the community. The Eldest took him and said, "grandson of the Suns. Conceived in darkness and secrecy. Born at nightfall. Born to twilight. Named for light."

A hush settled over the watchers, then The Oldest nodded and spoke, "truth is your shadow. Hard to see when the suns are too bright or the dark seems all-consuming. But look to your shadow and you wi**l**l see truth. Twilight born, seek the dawn."

Most people didn't question the elders about the blessing of the children and Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru were the same in that regard. They merely remembered what was said and so when Luke's dreams came they were not completely caught unawares. Luke's dreams were sometimes clear truth, sometimes muddled, true things. He would dream of a fight and there would be a Tuscan attack. He would hear winds in his sleep and a sandstorm would some. He dreamt sometimes of the past. (They learned that after he artlessly revealed what he knew of a past fight between a husband and wife.) He dreamed of space battles. His uncle said it was the past and that was true. He felt it was the future and knew that was also true.

Dreams and visions that came to him belonged to the night and they were hazy. The days were for his uncle's sure plans for tomorrow and vague promises of the future that would let him leave someday. When he was around Ben before he left Tatooine he felt like he was under the heat of both suns at midday. Ben's vision of the future was clear. He spoke of the true past. He was blindingly true. Luke tried to find his footing, but the suns ruled on Tatooine while the sands shifted. Everyone knew that.

Revelations about his father and the past swirled through his head as it hit the pillow. Luke dreamt of the fight again that night. He knew his father was fighting. That was true. He knew that Vader was fighting. That was also true.

Except Vader was his father. That was truth.

Angry at the road his thoughts seemed intent on taking, Luke rolled over and closed his eyes as if to block them out. But he didn't want to sleep either, didn't want to dream. Because his dreams showed him what was true, but that was not the same as the truth.

Murmurs of the Eldest crept in as he lay in his bunk, "Truth is your shadow. Hard to see when the suns are too bright or the dark seems all-consuming."

Deceptive truth tellers stood on either side of him, reaching out their hands and saying, "listen to me." Ben was light and what he said was true. Vader was dark and he spoke the truth. Light was true, dark was truth. Where was his shad**o**w? Where was his truth?

R-2 rolled by the door and for a wild moment Luke considered calling him in to ask for advice. The need to confide in someone, anyone, was nearly overpowering. He just didn't want to feel alone. Wanted to give someone his heart and not have it broken. To give someone his trust and not have it betrayed. He could not put his trust in those who spoke true or those who spoke truth. He could not ask Leia or Han or Chewie or anyone in The Alliance for help. He knew that they would tell him to believe Ben and reject Vader. And he was afraid they would reject him, Vader's son, sith spawn. He was alone, seeking his shadow.

Eldest said, Seek the dawn.

At the end of the day the Eldest spoke in riddles and was the most trustworthy of all. The truthful deceivers spoke clearly and thus hid what they meant. But he did not want to seek anything.

Muốn. Wish. Dori. Želja. Jixtiequ. He looked for a way off the farm: stormtroppers came. He looked for a purpose: Ben gave him a lightsaber. He looked for his father: Vader found him. He stood watching the suns set how many times? Always looking for more. Always wanting more. Then he got it. All the purposes and truths he could never wa**n**t.

Darth Vader. Old Ben. Skywalker. Kenobi. Anakin. Obi-Wan. Sith. Jedi. Father. Mentor. Truth-speaker. True-speaker.

Rolling the other way in a vain attempt to get comfortable, he sighed at the wall. He wished he could hate one of them. Then he could choose the other with no guilt. The lines had been drawn. Good. Evil. Dark. Light. Jedi. Sith. Empire. Alliance. It was Us and Them. It you're not Us then you're Them. For so long he was Us with his friends and (he assumed) his family (stupid, stupid). He was living his dream, doing what was right, was the hero. But every ship he shot down could be the man who sired him. Luke, unknowingly, had devoted his life to tearing down his father's life work. But he could not support the Empire. So the question remained.

Echoing in his head, bouncing off the walls. Are you them or us? Us or them? He could not be THEM. He could not be US. He was alone.

Accepting that he was not going to sleep to night Luke flopped on his back, looking at the ceiling, and watched the shadows change. Where was his truth? When he looked to himself all he found was love. Love for the Alliance, for his aunt and uncle, for Ben, for his friends, for his father. But he had to betray someone he loved, didn't he? He had done what the Oldest said; he had searched his heart for truth. Away from Ben's light and Vader's darkness he had looked to himself, his shadow. But what sort of truth was lov**e**?

Minutes crept by, his eyes grew heavy, and he slowly sunk into sleep. Then Luke dreamed. He could not remember his dream when he woke, not clearly. But he knew there was love, there was truth, and there was a woman's voice calling his father's name. And as the last traces vanished into the reality of morning she professed, "there is good in him. There is still…"


End file.
